


We'll Shine Together

by trimalchio



Series: So I Dream of Old Brazil [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:21:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trimalchio/pseuds/trimalchio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cristiano and Kaká grow old together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N. So this is the utterly unnecessary and much delayed sequel to my first fan fic on this site.

The song on the radio was an old one from when Cristiano was a teenager. It made him think of sun-drenched days that seemed to drag on forever and simultaneously go by too fast. Little flashes on memories emerged. Ricky's thoroughly illuminating smile. Ricky's eyes squinting from the bright Sun. Fingers dragged through hair and near-brushes of lips. T-shirts gripped between fingers. It was like those moments were only from a day before, but instead, they had happened more than fifteen years prior.

He was back in Brazil. Permanently, this time, instead of just for two months between seasons. He was even at his old club, good old São Paulo FC. At thirty-six, Cristiano was very old for a professional player, but he did pretty well for himself. This was his last year; it'd already been decided and it was no use trying to convince him otherwise. It was firm and final.

“Are you sure you want to retire this year?” the physio asked, scribbling Cristiano's weight down into his file. Although far from awful, the number had inched upwards over the years, however minutely, just due to age.

Cristiano nodded, “This is the year.”

“You know, I think you could make it to forty. I bet you could beat Ceni.”

“I'll let Ceni have his record. At his age, you shouldn't startle him too much,” Cristiano replied. He was firm on his choice, he decided. This was it. This was the year that he finally bit the bullet and gave up the ghost. He was thirty-six, surely he deserved it at his age.

Cristiano had dinner at his sister's house with her family, since he wasn't really up for eating by himself. A lot of people thought he was some definite pervert, since he wasn't married, despite being well-past the normal marrying age. And as a thirty-six year old professional football player, Cristiano really should have had at least two failed marriages, with a litter of children running at his ankles, by this point, but instead, he was just a weirdo.

“Are you gonna get us tickets for all your matches, Tio Cris?”

“You have to share with your cousins,” Cristiano replied.

Elma's husband elbowed him, good naturedly, “Come on, Tio, you gotta give us the derby tickets, right?”

Elma asked, “Ricky doesn't have the right of first refusal?”

“I thought I told you. Maybe I told Cátia. Ricky's a coach. He gets paid to sit on the sidelines, now. He doesn't need a ticket.”

“Well, look at you. You're reliving your early years. Both of you idiots are going to be hanging out together all the time again, aren't you?” Elma teased, turning to her husband to explain, “When they were kids, we wouldn't see Cristiano for days on end. And every time, he'd come back, blushing, saying he'd been with Ricky.”

That wasn't entirely fair. Sometimes he was with other friends. As much as it probably would have shocked his siblings, Cristiano did have memories that were separate from Ricky. Not a lot, but those moments still had their places. When he was a teenager, Cristiano spent plenty of time with his own girlfriend, particularly whenever Cristiano and Ricky were caught in their fights.

“Always blushing around him,” Elma said, smiling fondly for younger days.

Surely, Cristiano was far too young to have a proper midlife crisis; he was only thirty-six. But still, it felt only natural to contemplate the entirety of his life, with the culmination of his career. Everything that he worked for was soon to be over and Cristiano was certainly sad about that kind of thing.

He went to bed alone. The house was kind of creepy, when he was the only one in it. Cristiano had half a mind to call his brother to ask him to sleep over, but decided that was probably too weird of a favor. Before going to bed, he did watch a murder mystery documentary, which probably hadn't helped matters. That only transformed every non-existent noise into a potential serial killer out for blood.

After his first training session with his new, although old team, Cristiano had to take pictures with the staff, the press, his new teammates. Everyone asked the same question, “Why retire now? Why not later?”

“You look like you could be our Ryan Giggs?”

“You could be the next Ceni.”

It was a compliment, in a way. They were essentially saying that he still looked pretty sharp in his play, that somehow, he had something to offer, compared to young kids who still had their speed intact. But he had already made his choice. Cristiano was resisting all temptation to just give in, to admit that he wanted to play longer to, that he wasn't completely ready to just give up something that had been his whole life for the previous thirty-six years.

One of the young kids nearly attached himself to Cristiano like a mosquito, with the same awe that Cristiano himself once had for his own idols. The kid had a stupid nickname, like everyone else; he asked, “Is it okay if I call you Cristiano? Or do you want to be called Ronaldo? Or Cris? Or Ronnie? Or...”

“Cristiano is fine.”

“You were always my favorite player when I was a kid. You're my favorite player now, too.”

Cristiano smiled politely, not sure what to say, even though this interaction was a constant, particularly now that he was in the twilight of his career.

“I used to practice free kicks for hours and hours, just to make them like yours.”

When he went home, he took a second shower and called Ricky, who had to stay late in a meeting for the coaching staff, “So are you going to make my dinner or what?”

“Listen up, Ronaldo, if you think you can just come back to Brazil and take over my life, you have another thing coming,” Ricky replied. Cristiano knew Ricky was joking. He knew that Ricky wanted Cristiano to invade his life and stick his messy fingers into every corner.

“I'll be over in ten minutes.”

On his way over, another old song that Cristiano used to listen to came on the radio. Somehow, there was fifteen years that had slid between the moment that song had first been on the radio, playing from an old boombox that rested on an old concrete bench, and the moment that Cristiano heard it again, driving in his new, expensive car. It shouldn't have been that long; it couldn't have been that long, but who knew how long fifteen years was supposed to feel anyway?

“Hi superstar,” Ricky greeted him when Cristiano got to Ricky's house, in a neighborhood close by. Ricky smiled, like sunshine, and tugged at the hem of Cristano's t-shirt, “My parents want to get dinner with us, now that you're back in Brazil.”

“Elma's twins are having a birthday party next weekend, if you want to come.”

There was a pleasant silence. Ricky smiled, as though he had a particularly nice secret to tell, but he didn't say anything, so Cristiano asked, “What's up?”

“I'm just happy you're here.”

Ricky was starting to make dinner. He was a pretty decent cook, while Cristiano was a terror in the kitchen. He always forgot when he was making pasta, letting most of the water boil out of the pot, occasionally setting off his smoke detector.

While they were eating, Cristiano said, “Yesterday, I heard a song on the radio that reminded me of you.”

“Yeah? What song was it?”

“I don't remember, but seeing you made me remember that.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

 São Paulo lost their first three games of the season.

“We can still come in first, if we don't lose or draw for the rest of the season,” Rogério said, while they were on the bus back from the airport.

“That sounds totally reasonable. We've got it in the bag, huh?” Cristiano replied. Ricky tutted in response. Rogério and Ricky were still in their matching suits, while Cristiano was wearing his sweatpants and sweatshirt, both plastered in São Paulo FC crests, like the toddlers that were his teammates. It was probably weird that Cristiano sat with the coaching staff, instead of the team.

When he played for São Paulo the first time, there was usually at least one older player who had returned from Europe, their career circling the drain, looking to make a quick buck while their body could still withstand the exertion, who sat with the coaching staff instead of the team. Cristiano thought the older players were jealous of the younger players and just didn't bother. Honestly, Cristiano was probably looking into his own future, except he had been friends with Rogério for years and had always had his own special relationship with Ricky, so it wasn't totally jealousy.

While he walked to his car, after they got back to the practice grounds, one of the young kids, who had a stupid haircut like the rest of them, sidled right up to Cristiano, “We're going to win because we have you.”

His optimism was touching, but Cristiano had heard that line several times before and it didn't really mean anything.

Ricky came over his house and they watched a movie on TV, mostly wordlessly. After the movie finished and as they walked upstairs to go to bed, Ricky said, “I can't wait until you retire. You still lose like you're in the Champions League final.”

Cristiano didn't say anything in response.

“Remember 2007?”

“I don't want to talk about 2007.”

“Exactly.”

Cristiano rolled his eyes, but Ricky crawled into bed with him anyway.

The next day's training was unpleasant. Rogério, probably feeling the pressure, looked as though he lost more hair since the day before and had decided to lecture them on the importance of viewing the whole field, rather than just what was in front of them. Rogério was mixing metaphors and invoking prior titles and successes, so Cristiano mostly tuned out. He had been on a few of those teams, shared those successes, so it wasn't any use for him to revel in the past.

After training, Cristiano sat in his bathtub at home, filled with cold water and ice cubes from his freezer's ice tray. If he had still been in Europe, he'd have taken an ice bath at the training grounds, but São Paulo didn't have those kinds of facilities. It wasn't like the training grounds were on a farm, only tended by the team's goat, or anything ridiculously rustic; it was just not something that had evidently been demanded by prior players. His ankles were sore and his left one had swelled a little bit after he turned on it funny during training.

When he got out of the tub, his bones cracked. Cristiano felt so old, even though in the grand scheme of human existence, he was still on the younger side.

They drew the next game. It was the first point that Rogério earned as a manager, so it was something to celebrate soberly. Nothing to get drunk over. Rogério, Ricky, the goalkeeping coach, the physio and Cristiano went to Rogério's house for coffee. Cristiano wasn't sure if he liked being the only player who went, but he was the only player who was a genuine friend of Rogério, too.

“So when are you two getting married?” Rogério's wife asked Ricky, while Cristiano was making small-talk to the physio. Cristiano tensed, overhearing what she said. Rogério knew, of course, because it was Rogério, while the physio and the goalkeeping coach wasn't really privy to the workings of Cristiano's inner life, although Ricky had known them for a while, so it was entirely possible they knew all about Cristiano's inner life via Ricky.

“It all depends,” Ricky replied.

Neither Ricky nor Cristiano had asked the other. It was one of those things that kind of had been assumed, ever since Ricky broke up with Caroline for the last time. It was certainly not going to happen while they were both playing and was likely not going to happen while Cristiano was still playing. Due to the impending retirement, it was becoming more and more clear that marriage was also impending. Not that he really had a problem with marriage. It was less the concept than the finality of it all.

And for their whole lives, they had been both bound and separated by football. It was entirely possible, however minutely, that they frankly just didn't like each other all that much, when they didn't have to play out tortured melodramatic roles in a hypothetical autobiographical play. Perhaps an emotion that mimicked love closely had been spurred on by the suicidally stupid belief in forbidden emotional connections. Cristiano hadn't confided in anyone about that, since he decided it was better to not admit that, as he wasn't even sure if that was how he really felt anyhow.

Afterwards, everyone went their separate ways and Cristiano went to his house by himself.

At training, he got paired up with yet another young player, this one with reasonable hair and a reasonable name. Enzo, this one was called, a defender, said, “My dad used to say you were going to flop. That you weren't going to be worthy of wearing the Brazil shirt.”

“Did I measure up?”  
“You shouldn't listen to him. No one does,” Enzo said, stone-cold seriously. Enzo was a little weird, kind of like a Joy Division song in corporeal form. Well, at least Enzo wasn't competing to be the president of his fan club, so Cristiano had some form of respect for him.

They won the next game. During a counterattack, Cristiano scored the only goal of the game. Rogério was a man possessed by victory, tearing his the seam in his pants from impromptu acrobatics of cheering a little too much. Rogério, lost in the immediacy of the goal, ran onto the field and launched himself into Cristiano's arms. Ricky, although also excited, had contained himself enough to stay on the touchline. Rogério got sent off and had to wait in the locker room, until the match finished.

“How do you think Pep Guardiola did it?” Rogério asked while they were filing onto the bus, “I can't even keep it together when we've won one game. He won everything and I don't think he was a basket case like me. Do you think he cried when he won the Champions League the first time?”

“Let's win a second league match before we start making plans,” Ricky replied.

The younger players were all excited, cheerfully talking loudly, while Cristiano sat next to Ricky, ultimately knowing they had plans for tonight. One of the younger players, Cristiano thought his name was Thiago, shouted from the back of the bus, “Hey Mister! How long have you been with São Paulo?”

“Longer than all of your lives.”

“What about Kaká?”

“I started the academy in 1994.”

“What about Cristiano?” a different one piped up. Cristiano didn't like how curious they all were all of a sudden.

“Nineteen-ninety-six.”

“That's older than me!” Thiago replied, slightly surprised. Cristiano decided that he didn't like any of the younger players. Any player under twenty-six had been born after Cristiano had started in the academy, which was a continually recurring revelation that kept hitting him like a set of waves.

“That means I met you in 1996,” Ricky said quietly, smiling like that was a secret between the pair of them, “What a good time to be alive?”

“You knew we were going to be stuck together for the next twenty years all the way back in 1996?”

“It might be revisionist history, but I'd like to think it was love at first sight.”

“Revise away.”

Cristiano went to Ricky's house and stayed the night. The press weren't watching his house as much as they watched Cristiano's, mostly because Ricky was a forty year old retiree. Who cared about his movements?

Victory looked good on Ricky, even if he was only an assistant coach.


	3. Chapter 3

Time was alternately kind and cruel. On one hand, Cristiano liked to think that he was smarter than when he was younger; that is not to even mention happier and far less tortured by mundanities of normal life. On the other hand, there was less potential and much more previously-realized existence. He was no longer an ingenue of limitless potential, but a long-term professional, whose most brilliant days were confirmed to be behind him.

Ricky wore his glasses all the time, often falling asleep on the couch, while doing last-minute tactical studying, books with cracked spines covering the coffee table. Sometimes he purposefully fell asleep listening to lectures on tactics.

Wrinkles, particularly around Cristiano's eyes, were ever so slightly deeper and almost, nearly permanent. His nieces and nephews became largely independent human beings and were demanding significantly more expensive birthday presents than they used to, when a large refrigerator box could satisfy their young imaginations.

The other players would joke about his age. After Cristiano scored a hattrick during a Paulistano cup match, Thiago Perreira and Maxi gave him a cane as a present. It was a joke that Cristiano found hilarious when he gave Rogério a cane when he played for São Paulo the first time. Instead, it was less funny when it was his own turn.

They were in eighth place, which Cristiano thought wasn't too bad, all things considered, even though under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been too pleased with that type of league placement. Under normal circumstances, he would have put in extra training, practicing free kicks for hours, but he didn't. To some extent, he was disappointed with impending retirement. He couldn't see the thrill in waking up at 6:00 in the morning to do sprints. When Cristiano was still in high school, he didn't mind waking up extra early to do extra practices; it was what he wanted to do, to make himself that much better than everyone else. But now that the end was sight, what was the point? What was he preparing for anymore?

His last year in Italy was not particularly eventful and now, his last year in Brazil, and of his career, was shaping up to be another disappointing bust. Cristiano didn't tell Ricky that, since Ricky was already stressed out by being the assistant manager of a not particularly successful year.

Lionel Messi had retired in style. In his last season with Barcelona, he won a Champion's League and in his final season with Newell's Old Boys, he won the league. Cristiano spent much of his career jealous of Messi, so it only made perfect sense that he would end his career jealous of Lionel Messi, too. It was the natural order of things.

Despite all of the troubles in the league, their tournaments weren't going too badly. They even made it out of the Copa Libertadores group stages, by some minor miracle.

“Do you wish you played longer?” Cristiano asked Ricky, while they were on the bus, heading to another match, this one with decent odds.

“Nope,” Ricky replied, “I have bad hips, bad knees, bad back. Sometimes my toes clench up and I have to fix them with my hands.”

“We'd have to hold him together with rubber bands,” Rogério said, effortlessly eavesdropping.

“Do you have any regrets about anything?”

Ricky looked upwards thoughtfully and paused before saying, “Sometimes I wish I read the Harry Potter books before I saw the movies.”

Sometimes, Cristiano was certain that Ricky had lost his mind.

While they were getting changed before the match, Cristiano noticed that Enzo had painted his toenails blacks. Cristiano asked about it, hoping to find some weird tip, as two of his own toenails were smashed and he had to poke holes in the nails to relieve the pressure from the blood. Even in 2021, football boots were not strong enough to withstand stamps from 215 pound Lou Ferrigno impersonators, masquerading as football players.

“To reflect my displeasure with life.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'm not a particularly happy person and I show that there,” Enzo replied, pointing at his feet.

“Why not paint your fingernails?”

“My father wouldn't like that,” Enzo replied. Enzo turned around to pick up something in his locker. Someone, Maxi probably, had drawn a skull and crossbones on a sticky note and stuck it on Enzo's back.

Sometimes Cristiano thought he was the only normal person he knew.

They won the match, advancing in the Copa do Brasil. The only person who scored was Thor, one of the younger idiots, who modeled his life on Hulk, down to the ridiculous superhero-themed nickname and playing as a forward. Thor was only eighteen years old, which meant that he was born after Cristiano started playing professionally, which meant that Cristiano hated him, although not seriously. He was kind of a Neymar sequel, having gotten pretty popular all over the world via YouTube. Being a YouTube sensation wasn't the kiss of death that it used to be, when Cristiano started his career; afterall, Neymar did pretty well for himself, with a Ballon D'Or of his own.

All of the other players were young and excited to start their careers. They all sang chants on the bus on the way back, after their win. Maxi, Thiago Perreira, and Thor all took turns flicking little torn up bits of paper into Enzo's open mouth, while he napped.

Ricky went back to his house and Cristiano went to his own. That weekend, games were suspended, due to the international break, so they had a week off and plenty of time to spend with each other. He wasn't being called up, but Thor and Enzo had been. His last World Cup was the one in Russia, while Thor and Enzo were working on qualifying for Qatar.

“Captain, my Captain,” Marcelo had called him. Marcelo was the current captain of Brazil and Real Madrid, while Cristiano had been the previous Brazil captain and hadn't really stuck around at any of his clubs long enough to be a captain.

“Are you already desperate for advice? You've had three matches on your own and you're already crawling back.”

“I wanted to make sure your care-givers remembered to feed you and change you,” Marcelo replied, “Is Ricky taking care of you?”

“I'm taking care of him. If you think I'm senile, you don't want to see Ricky,” Cristiano replied, settling onto his couch. He turned on the television, deciding this was the night he was going to catch up with that HBO show that Xabi Alonso always tweeted about.

“I just wanted to remind you that Flamengo is on the top of the table.”

“Give us time, São Paulo will be there, eventually.”

Old age had its perks. It was perfectly acceptable to just spend an entire Friday night bingeing on old television shows that he hadn't been caught up on yet. It was perfectly acceptable to do that on Saturday as well, but on Saturday, Ricky had come over and they leaned against each other, staring at the television.

On Sunday night, as the credits on the final episode of the final season rolled, Ricky mumbled, “What was that?”

“I think...I think that one lady was both in love with and wanted to kill that other lady,” Cristiano replied, somewhat confused himself. Why did Xabi like this show so much? Well, everyone wore expensive suits and listened to old Indie music, so Cristiano answered his own question. He probably used it as an excuse to call Steven Gerrard, to compare show notes or something.

Cristiano and Ricky made and ate dinner, while still talking about the weirder parts of the show. After dinner, Ricky had to talk to Rogério on the phone, while Cristiano played around on his cell phone.

After he was done, Ricky informed Cristiano, “I think Rogério has kidney stones.”

“What the fuck? Why do you know that and why do I need to know that?”

“He told me that he has painful urination and he's been under a lot of stress lately,” Ricky said.

“Again, why do I need to know that?" Cristiano asked.  In a way, it was a reminder.  Rogério had been a professional athlete until he was forty-two and he was still prone to breaks in the body.  That no one's bladder was truly safe from the potential of kidney stones.

Ricky shrugged and the weekend passed too quickly. On Tuesday, Cristiano went to Rogério's house to watch the Brazil game. Neither Enzo nor Thor started; instead, there were a few familiar faces (Marcelo, Neymar, Oscar), who were all at the top of their games. Cristiano felt a pang of jealousy creeping in his stomach. Time wasn't really all that kind and Cristiano was left behind.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was less difficult to tell people that he and Ricky were a “thing” than Cristiano had originally thought it would be. Hugo sighed and said, “It's insulting that you felt the need to clarify that.”

Rogério had a very similar reaction, “You say these things like I don't have eyes.”

Caroline was the worst to inform, especially since Ricky pulled a cut and run, probably thinking it would have been easier to just end their engagement without any further discussion of the matter, but Ricky was weird, probably even weirder than Cristiano ever could hope to be. Since Ricky was possibly an alien, it was up to Cristiano to interpret his behavior into normal human behavior. She was drunk when Cristiano told her; there was no kinder way, really. She threw water in his face. All she said was, “I should have fucking known.”

And she kept saying it. A few years later, Caroline got married to a businessman, who went to her Church. Cristiano got invited to the wedding, but Ricky wasn't. It made sense, since Cristiano was never engaged to her. She had two kids and their family Christmas cards always looked like the samples in department store photographer catalogs. They wore dorky, matching t-shirts when they went to Disney. It was pretty nauseating. And somewhat horrifying to Cristiano, since you could pretty much cut and paste Ricky's head on her husband's body and never know the difference. Caroline had constructed the ur-family. Cristiano never doubted her ability in that arena.

But telling teammates was never on his mind, not in Europe, not in Brazil. Well, other than possibly Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, whom he might have told, while overtired during a bus trip to London. He had never been very worried about them squealing, considering Xabi and Steven had pretty much claimed each other for life, while snogging after winning the Champions' League. It was shocking that they hadn't peed on one another, in order to ward off rogue friendships.

Cristiano left Liverpool in the summer of 2007 to go to Inter, since José Mourinho decided to bring him into the stable. In 2010, he went to Real Madrid, with Mourinho. He stayed with Real Madrid after Mourinho self-destructed yet again, going back to Italy after he turned thirty-three.

Even though, Cristiano had a significant part of his career defined by José Mourinho, he never really liked the man. José Mourinho was prone to paranoia and had difficulties playing well with others. And there was always the unspoken argument about Portugal, whether Cristiano was meant to be playing for them or not. It was probably a good thing that Mourinho was hellbent on slighting everyone who wronged him, whether truly or imaginarily, and that Cristiano was far down on that list, when compared to (and not limited to) Pep Guardiola, Sir Alex Ferguson, Rafael Benítez, and the ghosts of football past. That probably consumed much of his mind, enough time to not bother Cristiano, anymore. Needless to say, if Cristiano was to have a wedding, Jose Mourinho was not particularly high on the invite list.

Though it was an imaginary, although signature, José Mourinho taunt that caused him to be late to Ricky's mother's birthday party. He stayed late at training to work on free kicks, even though literally everyone else had gone home. The taunt had come to him in a dream. Jose Mourinho didn't even have to verbalize it, but somehow a psychic link had apparently opened up between them, “You're getting lazy. You don't even want to win, do you?”

Maybe Cristiano had been deeply self-reflecting, using José Mourinho as a representation of that self-reflection, but he wasn't really sure. His versions of self-delusion were becoming more and more sophisticated and infinitesimally more confusing.

“You're late,” Digão, Ricky's younger brother, informed him, when Cristiano got to the Leites' house. It was a miracle that he had even gotten there at all.

“Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Almost everyone left.”

“I'm two hours late, not five hours,” Cristiano replied, testily, not sure why Digão was grilling him over something that seemed so relatively inconsequential. The Leites hadn't really given Cristiano much trouble, considering that he had stolen Ricky from Caroline and probably led him into a life of sin and debauchery. In fact, if he were bold, Cristiano might guess that Senhor and Senhora Leite actually liked him and enjoyed his company. They had even told him to call them by their first names, but since he had known them since he was eleven, it was hard to make that transition, even fifteen years into a serious relationship.

Cristiano stepped around Digão to find Ricky, who had been sitting at the dining room table, with his parents and a lone aunt, who hadn't yet left. Ricky stood up and kissed Cristiano on the cheek, in greeting. Cristiano gave Senhora Leite a bottle of wine that he had found in the back of one of his cabinets before he went to training that morning.

“Thank you, Cris love,” Senhora Leite said. Ricky's aunt was slightly tipsy and made some rather typical drunk aunt-type comments about getting married and starting a family, but not before Ricky quickly ushered Cristiano outside to sit on the porch step in the backyard.

Ricky went to put his arm around Cristiano's shoulder, but Cristiano said, “Don't do that. I didn't shower.”

He had liberally doused himself with deodorant and did a quick prayer that no one touched him until after he got home.

“You were two hours later to my mother's birthday and you're dirty? I picked a winner,” Ricky sighed, “Is that how little you care?”

Cristiano shrugged. It was always kind of a weird blast to the past, going to Ricky's parents' house. It looked the same as it did when he first met Ricky, twenty-five years prior, except they did get rid of the old swingset and the goalposts, which probably hadn't been relative to their lives for quite a few years.  It was like looking into the early years of Ricky and Cristiano, before they were were official, although Cristiano had been in love, even all the way back then.

For most of the night, Digão kept making annoyed faces at Cristiano, while Ricky sighed, with all of the weight of a fifty year old Jewish mother, whose only son had recently declared his intention to become a singer songwriter, rather than a dentist. Ricky's sloppy drunk aunt continued another weird tirade about weddings, while Senhor and Senhora Leite seemed a little sad.  It was an uncomfortable affair all the wat around.

When Cristiano got back to his own house, free from whatever weirdness had possessed all of the Leites, he noticed that he had an unread text message from his agent, Sean, a former rapper turned sports agent mogul, “Mazel tov.”

Cristiano responded, “Why?”

“Rickys gonna make an honest man out of u. LOL,” was Sean's response.

Ricky was going to propose? That's why all of the Leites had been acting weird: why Digão had been giving him an attitude and why Ricky had been competing for the World Sighing Championship.

For a second, Cristiano was almost touched that Ricky had apparently gotten permission from Sean and possibly Hugo, if he was exceptionally invested in tradition and insane, for asking for hands in marriage. Cristiano was a thirty-six year old man, he certainly didn't need anyone else's permission to do anything, let alone get married. Hell, if he wanted to marry a lady (not that he had any in mind), he'd get married.

Then, Cristiano was so annoyed that he got a headache. As he was an old man, he decided against driving over to Ricky's house to scream at him. He went to bed angry and couldn't fall asleep. All he could think about was Ricky not talking about marriage, more concretely, earlier. In sleep deprived delirium, Cristiano started to hear José Mourinho's voice, speaking to him, “You cannot let a man throw you off your game.”

And then, dream José Mourinho might have kissed him.

Cristiano woke up, as though from a nightmare, sitting up immediately, “What the fuck?”

Well, his subconscious was certainly going haywire.

 


	5. Chapter 5

A ball hit Cristiano in the chest. He guided it down to his feet and dribbled around the cones. It was mostly out of habit, out of training. He had done that exercise so much over the past thirty years that Cristiano didn't even have to conjure another thought.

He had not yet confronted Ricky. They preferred mutually assured destruction.

After the team training, he stayed late to practice shots on goal. Enzo stayed behind with him and sat in the goal, reading a book. Cristiano pretended that he was a particularly small, particularly lazy keeper.

“Do you think we'll finish high enough to qualify for the Copa Libertadores?” Enzo asked.

Cristiano stood in the corner of the penalty area, trying to work on free kicks. The aims for the season had lowered significantly over time. It was very apparent that the only way they would get first place was if every other team ahead of them lost all of their games or if all of them died. They were still in the Copa do Brasil, which was pretty good. The main aim was to make the cut for the continental competition for the next year.

“Probably,” Cristiano replied. The ball skipped just over the top of the top goal post.

“Are you actually retiring?” Enzo asked, rolling a different ball that had been caught in the netting to Cristiano.

“Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?”

“You don't seem like you're retiring. Last year, when Other Maxi retired, he never practiced extra. And mostly just fucked around for the whole season.”

Cristiano shrugged. He took another shot. It landed in the top left corner. Just where he wanted it to go. Cristiano was pretty sure that when he retired, he'd probably still practice free kicks. It was a pretty good stress reliever, for him, at least.

After he finished up, Cristiano dragged the bag of footballs to the equipment room. Enzo left without helping, pretty conveniently, probably scampering off home. Cristiano went into the locker room, to grab his keys to go home. And his plans for the rest of the day were fairly pathetic: he was mostly going to stew in his own anger and imagine arguments that he won handily and had the best lines.

Someone walked through the locker room. Cristiano could hear whoever it was shuffling past some dropped towels and stepping on a crinkled wrapper of a protein bar.

“You're here late,” Cristiano said to Ricky coolly.

“We had a late meeting with Rogério. He wants to go to the doctor for his kidney stones,” Ricky replied, “Has that recently become a crime without my knowledge?”

Cristiano shrugged, tugging his sneakers and his keys out of his locker. He had a picture of his neices and nephews taped to the inside of it. Cristiano narrowed his eyes, looking at Ricky up and down. Smug, dumb, all-knowing Ricky.

“I wouldn't want to marry you anyway,” Cristiano said, mostly because he had run out of witty comebacks and decided to go for the throat.

“Good thing I never asked you.”

Cristiano never noticed that Ricky was better than him at this whole comeback thing, but it was a trait that Cristiano would have enjoyed a lot more, had they not been in an argument, “Well, I knew you were going to ask. I know because Sean told me.”

“And now I have my answer.”

“Good. I'm glad. I'd rather marry pretty much anyone on this planet than you.”

Ricky didn't say anything for a while. Cristiano had pretty much forgotten why he was so angry, but he was pretty sure he was in far too deep in the argument to back off. Ricky sighed, “You are the most frustrating person I've ever loved.”

“Well...well...you don't ask me if we can get married. If anyone's going to ask, it's going to be me!” Cristiano pointed at himself, as though Ricky would forget, “So. Will you marry me?”

It was probably the angriest marriage proposal ever attempted. It didn't bode well for their future.

Someone else enterred the locker room. Enzo walked past to his locker, holding his towel to keep it up. His flip flops squeaked loudly. He purposefully avoided both Cristiano and Ricky's eyes.

Cristiano and Ricky both stared at Enzo's back.

“What did you hear, Enzo?” Ricky asked, gently.

Enzo shrugged, “Look, I'm not going to tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Great,” Cristiano murmured.

“If you want an explanation, we can give you one,” Ricky said. He clearly missed his calling as a guidance counselor.

“What's to explain? You two are fucking, right?”

“It's a little more refined than that. We love each other.”

“Cool. Can I just get dressed in peace?”

Cristiano and Ricky both exited the locker room. Ricky said, “That wasn't as bad as it could have been.”

“He was naked. What was Enzo going to do? Gay bash us while he's nude?” Cristiano replied. If Enzo said anything, Cristiano toyed with idea of just pulling off his towel and staring, to make a point, though Cristiano wasn't sure what point that would have made. Enzo hadn't said anything, so Cristiano didn't have to do anything.

Ricky shrugged, tapping Cristiano on the cheek. He said, “I'm not sure what to say.”

And just like that, they weren't angry at each other, over imaginary slights or actual bitchy comments. As they went to the parking lot, Cristiano asked, “So, did you say 'yes' or what?”

Ricky smirked and said, “I don't have much of a choice. You'd just steal me away from any future husband or wife or whatever, wouldn't you?”

“That's my job,” Cristiano said firmly. That was pretty much a yes.

“You're lucky I have no self-control around you,” Ricky said, leaning against his car. He asked thoughtfully, “How long do you think until Enzo tells everyone else that we're...you know?”

“Enzo's not like that,” Cristiano said, although he didn't know Enzo all that well, it was one of those feelings. If it was Thor or Maxi or one of the other players that all blended together, Cristiano wouldn't be so sure, but Enzo? Enzo was sort of a goth kid who was good at football and if there was one lesson that Cristiano managed to absorb through years of public school was that weird kid loyalty ran deep. All Cristiano had to do was buy Enzo lunch once or twice and he would have a henchman for life. Since Ricky went to a private school, he probably didn't need to game the social heirachy in quite the same way that public school kids did.

The next day, when Cristiano went into training, he had brought his Cafu shirt that he had traded for at one of the Champions' League finals to sweeten the deal for Enzo's silence. As Cristiano put all of his stuff in his locker, he looked around and saw Enzo whispering to Thiago and Maxi.

Thor, whose locker was next to Cristiano's, leaned in closer to Cristiano and whispered, “Enzo told me not to tell anyone, but I think you're a bigger hero than I thought before.”

Cristiano had previously discounted the idea that Enzo's weird kid loyalty had been bought before he returned to São Paulo. Well, Enzo was certainly not getting a Cafu shirt, with that revelation.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The season was completely lost, but they still had the Copa do Brasil final. Cristiano's handle on his retirement was far less strong. He trained, like he still had to prep for next year. He did his sprints, as hard as he could. He stayed late, with Enzo most of the time, sometimes Thor, Thiago and Maxi stayed behind too.

Rogério missed a week, when he had to get his kidney stones taken care of, which left Kaká in charge. Cristiano felt bad for Kaká, who was mostly overwhelmed with the pressure, so he asked Maxi and Thiago to not pull any pranks on him.

When Rogério returned, he noted, “You kept your clan in line, right, Cris?”

“They're not my clan.”

“Okay,” Rogério said sarcastically.

Cristiano never had to sit at lunch by himself, even when he didn't sit with the coaches, the younger players flocked around his table. They all talked about the new social media things and mocked Cristiano for having a Facebook, since they all had migrated to some other thing...whatever it was called. They made fun of his ankle compresses because they didn't need those yet. They still sat with him, though.

Somehow, time had slipped past Cristiano in a fog, until it was the halftime break during the Copa do Brasil final. Flamengo was up, 1-0. Rogério gave them a speech on how to never give up or whatever.

Cristiano studied his shoe laces. He missed this. The tension of being so close to victory, yet so far away at the same time. He was going to miss it all immensely. The stress, the release, the sweat, the bitterness, the elation, all of it.

Thiago, their captain, was supposed to make a speech, but also rambled about it being their moment and trite garbage like that. Cristiano had heard about a million half-time, chips-down “move towards victory” speeches in his life and these were middle of the road.

Flamengo was playing like they were going to be executed if they didn't do well. They only hadn't scored because of three excellent saves from São Paulo's keeper. Cristiano barely got a touch in.

Ricky caught his eye and smiled sadly. It was Cristiano's last chance for a trophy and he probably wasn't going to take anything home, to show for the season. It was a moment that caught him completely by surprise. He started to feel nauseated from the realization.

“Cristiano, do you have any words of inspiration?”

Cristiano looked around. Expecting eyes watched him. Knowing he wasn't a masterful orator, Cristiano decided that going for an inspiring speech was going to fail. So he all said was, “I don't want my trophy cabinet to be empty this year because of you losers.”

There was confused silence in the locker room, as everyone decided to stare at their own shoelaces.

As they went into the tunnel, Ricky whispered, “I'm glad that you're thinking of everyone else.”

Cristiano shrugged. He was never good at being outside of his own head, especially during matches.

“This isn't the Champions' League. This is just one game in a tournament you've won already. Relax,” Ricky said quietly.

“But I won't have won this one. Everyone'll think that I'm just a broken down old man.”

“But that's what you are. You're a thirty-six year old man with bad ankles playing against teenagers. Those kids, they're going to remember they played with someone who's peak was before he met them. They love you, but we all know how it works.”

“I can win it.”

“It's a team sport.”

“I can do it.”

“Cris, I realize it's very late in your life for you to confront this, but you are a terrible loser. No one likes losing, but you bring it to an artform.”

“I can win it.”

“You won't be here next year. It doesn't matter if you do.”

And Cristiano said the one thing he hadn't told anyone during the whole season, even if it was an indescribable feeling that had bubbled around in his stomach for a year, “I don't think I'm ready to leave.”

Ricky didn't say anything, pursing his lips tightly.

“If we lose, I'll learn to lose, okay? I'll retire and we'll move to the country and get a house or whatever. And breed dogs or whatever gay dudes do.”

“And if we win, you want us to put off living like normal people another year? I'm going to be forty years old next April. Time is running out.”

“One more year, if we win. _If_ we win.”

Ricky nodded, defeated, “You will make me regret this.”

“I hope so.”

“You're lucky I'm under contract for next year, too.”

Cristiano kissed Ricky on the lips, in the crowded tunnel. No one noticed, since it was mostly just a lean-in, just a little closer.

And they marched back onto the field.

Flamengo had the ball first, the first half, so Thor was toying with while he decided what to do.

At the fifty minute mark, Maxi assisted for Thor, who slid the ball right under the keeper. Flamengo buckled down and kept their diamonds and squares, maintaining possession.

Flamengo got a few more chances in, but again São Paulo had a miracle worker as a goalkeeper. But in the eighty-seventh minute, São Paulo got a clean break, when Thiago intercepted a loose ball. Maxi had the ball, right outside of the penalty box, but shoved off, bodily, by a Flamengo defender. The referee decided to give São Paulo a free kick, but neglected to give the defender a red card, as Cristiano asked, waving an imaginary card.

The free kick was Cristiano's. There was never a question about something like that. _One more year. One more year._ A little voice in his head chanted. _One more fucking year._ If he skied it, there wouldn't be a next year to make up for that mistake. There was no promise of a tomorrow.

As he prepared himself, steadying himself in front of the ball, backing up, his mind went blank. Cristiano was all instinct and all reaction. He knew what he was doing and he didn't even have to think.

The ball tipped past the keeper's outstretched arms. There was a delay between when the screams from the stadium started and when Cristiano recognized what exactly happened.

“You won't have an empty trophy case this year!” Maxi shouted, as they all pulled tight against each other. The team had become a human rat king.

Flamengo, to their credit, really pushed for a last minute goal, to push it into extra time, but São Paulo held on. Five minutes after Cristiano's free kick, the referee blew his whistle for full time.

“I've got one more year!” Cristiano shouted, his stay of execution was granted, “One more year!”

Ricky and Rogério were shaking hands with the other coaches and the manager of Flamengo. Cristiano, swallowed by elation, grabbed Ricky and pulled him close, into a hug. Cristiano kissed Ricky, in full view of the stadium and only thought about the stench of victory.

A journalist stopped Cristiano in front of his camera, while Cristiano walked to the lockerroom, “What was that thing with Kaká about?”

“I love him,” Cristiano shrugged, “He's letting me play another year.”

And he kept walking. It was entirely possible that things might become somewhat normal.

That night, after the celebrations waned, Cristiano sat on top of the covers of Ricky's bed. They hadn't decided which house was going to be their home together. Ricky said, “Well, at least you won't be a deadbeat next season. You'll have to pull your own weight with the bills.”

“That's fine with me.”

Ricky picked up some clothes that were on the floor, turning the socks right side out. They were both quiet, enjoying the gentle domesticity of the moment.

“I'm sorry for being an asshole about nearly everything,” Cristiano said.

Ricky shrugged, “I'm sorry, too.”

“Why are you sorry? You tried to do nice things by asking Sean for my hand in marriage. Yeah, it's a little weird, but it was nice.”

“I'm sorry for a lot of stuff,” Ricky replied, “I'm sorry for being a basketcase when we were younger. I'm sorry for putting pressure on you to retire when you weren't ready. I'm sorry.”

Ricky tossed the clothes in his hamper. Cristiano said, “You know, who that goal was for?”

“Who?”

“You.”

“All of your goals should be for me, from now on,” Ricky replied, smiling. He sat down on the bed too, turning the lamp off.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Cristiano laid his arm over Ricky's side, holding him close.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was procrastinating on doing other work, so clearly my brain decided this was a great time to get inspired for my fic. So that's why I updated twice in one day.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
